Enter Curdwell.
Curd. I have fresh cheese and cream!
Heath. Harmonious voice! The Witney singers are but chattering magpies to this melodious nightingale, and the tabor and pipe but as the scraping on a brass pan to this organ; sure, this is the beauty that I must court. If Cupid be not propitious now, I'll cut my brooms into rods, and whip the peevish boy. Lady (for so your beauty styles you), to whom the snow and swan are black, whether thou art a goddess, and come down to punish men, and make them die with love, or a mortal which excellest all goddesses, pity a wounded heart, which can receive no ease from any thing but those eyes from whom it did receive its wounds. There's no nectar or ambrosia but what thy pail affords; the moon would willingly be that the Welshmen wish it, so thou wouldst give it room amongst thy cheeses. Be not unkind, sweet lady; one cruel look will make this place my slaughter-house, and thee the butcher's butcher.
Curd. I dare not trust you, for all your fair words; men of your profession make it a trade to cheat us.
Heath. I'll be as faithful as thou art fair, and stick as close unto thee as my shirt does to my back on a sweltry sweating day. Come, thou shalt yield, and by yielding conquer me.
Curd. You set upon weak women with your strong compliments, and overcome them, whether they will or no. [He moves.
Heath. Move forward; we'll be contracted at the next alehouse, be married to-morrow, and have half a dozen children the next day. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter Welcome, a host.
Wel. Sure, I have slept myself into an owl, and mistake night for day? Can light dawn, and none see the way to my house for a morning's draught? No groats due? Did all my mad lads go sober to bed last night? Such a crime forfeits the city charter. What ho! speak here, sirrah Bung.